


Poison and Wine

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Smaug, Possessive!Thranduil, Protectiveness, Sad Thranduil, a bit of child neglect, but it gets better, kill me now, sad legolas, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:42:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If you love something, you have to learn to let it go. Right?Or the one where Thranduil learns (is forced) to give up (more like have it ripped out of his hands) love.Twice.(Taken place in an alternate universe where Thorin never set out to reclaim Erebor)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi...this is just my short take on how Legolas would eventually leave Mirkwood even if the Battle of the Five Armies never happened.
> 
> *runs to hide*

Lump in his throat, hands hanging useless and clenched into tight fists at his sides, tears threatening to spill over.

The King of Mirkwood stands before the casket that holds his beloved wife.

Pale and cold in death, her beauty that lingers haunts him like a ghost, makes the hurt in his heart and his head all the more sharp.

The guilt that gnaws at his soul and threatens to swallow him up makes him dizzy and sick as he looks on the deceased, delicate body, and his only wish is to turn back time.

A small voice is heard by his side, a tiny hand tugging his own.

He can't bear to look upon his son, or see the sharp resemblance Legolas has to his wife. 

It hurt to think about just what Legolas had lost when she died, what he lost.

Thranduil ignores the small elfling, though it brings him great anguish and misery to do so, and he's ever grateful to his faithful Galion when he hears his soft voice.

"Come, little prince," Galion says quietly, no doubt taking the babe's hand in his own to lead him away despite Legolas' tearful protests.

Thranduil is left alone for hours (or is it centuries?), standing, staring.

Completely and utterly powerless and useless.

As he studies her almost gray skin, her closed, unseeing eyes, he vows to never love again.

 

•••••••

 

Despite many years having washed over, Thranduil still doesn't have the strength to look at Legolas for even a minute.

It doesn't mean he doesn't care.

He makes sure that Galion is unfailing in ensuring that Legolas succeeds and learns from all his lessons. He eats meals with the Elfling, or at least most meals. And although they sit at the ends of the seemingly mile-long table and although Thranduil will never make an attempt to interact with his son, it's enough for the Elvenking.

It still hurts to see Legolas, even for the briefest of moments, to see his failure in his child's innocent face, and his mistakes.

 

•••••••

 

More time has passed, and the sadness and pain has faded.

Or the Elevenking has finally grown accustomed to these torturous feelings.

He hides them as well as he can, only keeping his face impassive to all and keeping his heart guarded.

A drop of feeling besides anger, bitterness, or mere nonchalance is not seen from the Elvenking of Mirkwood, and many of his subjects begin to whisper, say that he'd lost his heart when he lost his wife.

But Thranduil wasn't cold to all, as the only two people who've seen an ounce of emotion from him since his wife's death were Galion and Legolas.

The first had been an accident. 

Thranduil had indulged in too much wine the night of his wife's death anniversary, and had nearly drank his own cellars dry.

When Galion (poor, faithful Galion) had tried to take the bottles from him, Thranduil broke into an angry, passionate fit.

"How dare you take those from your king?" he had shouted, attempting to stand. The room had been spinning at the time, and his knees were weak. It was no mystery why he collapsed at his butler's feet after only a few seconds of standing.

"Please, my lord," Galion said, voice pained as he knelt down before Thranduil, dropping the bottles of remaining liquor and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You are..unwell.."

Thranduil completely broke down at those words, sobbing as Galion hesitantly pulled him into his arms, stroking his back gently as he tried to comfort him.

The second time had been a choice (or, more rather, a poor attempt of show).

The closest he's gotten to showing Legolas he wasn't made of stone was when the child passed his Elvish test with full marks, and he showed it off happily to him.

Thranduil had tried to smile as encouragingly as he could, as he truly was proud of his sweet darling. But he couldn't miss the look of despondency on Legolas' face when he only quietly acknowledged it with a nod and said smile, and his heart grew heavier with each slow, sad step the Elfling took to leave his father's throne room.

Thranduil wishes with all of his being that he could change his relationship with the only remainder of his wife's love, but he's knows he's not strong enough.

Distant they remain and the Elvenking weeps at night to think of just how much of a disappointment he is, to his wife, his people, and most of all to his own son.

 

••••••

 

It's springtime, and the gardens are warm and beautiful, full of lush, thick grass and the very few, rare, remaining colorful blossoms trees. 

Thranduil watches Legolas from his balcony, watches Feren attempt to teach the little boy archery.

Legolas small arms can barely pull back the string of the bow, much less release the arrow farther than a few feet.

Thranduil can see his baby's face flush in embarrassment and irritation after a few tries, and he watches as Feren kneels behind his little leaf, covers his small hands with his own strong ones and helps him draw back the string.

His hand barely feels the marble railing as he clutches it in jealousy.

He wishes he was the one teaching Legolas how to use a bow, although he much prefers to use a sword. He wishes he was the one steadying his son's aim.

But he knows he can't bear to be so close to Legolas, so he's resigned to watching the child learn and grow from far off, resigned to loving the little Elfling he barely knows.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, to think of just how much of Legolas' life he's missing.

 

••••••

 

One night, after years of estrangement and distance, it all changes.

The Elvenking sits in his bed after a long day, exhausted. He's alone, as usual, having sent Galion away sooner than normal. The fire that lights the room in its orange, golden light warms his body from winter's chill, as does the thick, numerous sheets and blankets.

They have yet to thaw his heart which remains ice.

He tries to focus on the book before his eyes, tries to force his tired eyes to read each word, but he's far too distracted at the moment, and he knows exactly why.

He can't bear to look at the empty side of his bed as he puts away the tome.

It starts with a knock on the large, thick wooden doors.

It takes Thranduil's breath away. 

It's softness and tentativeness reminds him of his late wife's, how she'd be so hesitant to disturb him at any time of the day.

"Come in," Thranduil says, and he completely denies the slight tremble in his voice.

Legolas appears in the doorway, his small body covered in nothing but a thin nightgown that's being twisted in his small hands. The soft, pink lip between his teeth betrays his nervousness, and it hurts to see his son like this.

No, he tells himself. He doesn't feel any longer. 

There is no pain, no love.

He could not feel.

He must not feel.

"What is it, Legolas?" Thranduil inquires, sounding colder than he intends.

Understandably, the young Elfling doesn't answer right away, simply keeps his eyes averted to the ground.

The Elvenking cannot deny the sadness in the depths of his soul when he sees Legolas' obvious hesitance, and he sighs.

"Come, sit," the Elvenking says, much softer than his earlier tone. 

And the thought of having his baby so close to him for the first time in nearly forty-nine years...

Legos quietly complies, and he sits beside his father on his large bed, looking even smaller than before. Still he doesn't make eye contact with his father, and it greatly puzzles (worries) Thranduil.

"Legolas?" he calls his name softly, finally reaching out and gently touching his son's chin to lift his face.

The large tears that fill his crystal eyes floods the older's soul with pain, and to his horror, his heart begins to thaw.

He swallows in fear as it begins to throb painfully in his chest for the first time in nearly half a century.

"I miss you," Legolas quiet words finally steal back his attention, voice trembling. 

Thranduil can't move, is frozen by the hurt and guilt that begins swirling in his soul like a hurricane. He once again sees how he's failed another person close to his heart, and the thought fills his dry eyes with burning liquid.

"Amin hiraetha," Thranduil breathes, and he pulls his Elfling into his arms, clinging onto him tightly. "Amin hiraetha, forgive me, my little leaf."

The familiar, soft scent of Legolas' still young body pierces Thranduil, and he chokes as he tries not to cry into his child's golden strands.

Only then does he truly realize how much Legolas had grown, realizing that he's not as small as he once was. He's definitely changed over the years; many other races would guess that he was only a boy of thirteen when in Thranduil's mind, he's still the confused, sad Elfling who had just lost his mother.

"Ada," Legolas sobs, clutching his father's silk clothing in his tiny hands. 

"Don't let this sorrow weigh you down," Thranduil whispers uselessly, grasping at anything to try to soothe the younger.

Legolas only begins to sob more violently, and Thranduil stops breathing.

"It's alright, iôn-nín," the Elvenking whispers, stroking his child's back with his bejeweled hands. "It's alright to weep."

The melancholy that disturbs and fills Legolas' soul is so deep that the father can feel it, and it scares him. 

His fëa is empty and far away, just like his beloved's....

"Please, my love," Thranduil begs, breath hitching as Legolas' cries do not cease. "I only ask that you let go of this sorrow before..before.."

He gasps sharply in fear, and he holds Legolas tighter.

"I'm here now," he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was alright. Please don't kill me, I know it's not super amazing or anything...
> 
> Chapter title and story title taken from The Civil Wars beautiful song: Poison and Wine.
> 
> All grammar/spelling errors are mine, as I have no (and never had) a beta.
> 
> xxx


End file.
